


To Catch A Criminal

by oomikram



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bank Robbery, Drama, F/F, F/M, I don't want to spoil it, I rewrote this so it's better now!, M/M, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, The Junker Squad™, redemption arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-12-10 20:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11699079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oomikram/pseuds/oomikram
Summary: While on an international crime spree with two of the world’s most renowned criminals, you’ve since made quite the name for yourself. Rambunctiously perfect, the odds are consistently playing in your favor. It’s the unexpected reemergence of your problematic past and the eyes of someone you’ve forgotten that make it all go oh-so-terribly wrong.





	1. Slim Jims, Gatorade

   “Yeah, yeah. I got ya’. Slim jims, Gatorade, Takis, and Dr. Pepper,” you repeat, your tone soaked with facetious irritation.

   “‘n don’t forget them Twinkie things, aight?” Junkrat insists.

   “Aight.”

   Hopping out of Roadhog’s ragged pickup truck, your dusty leather boots hit the hot pavement with a thud. A cloud of dust rises from the impact, and you fan it away in irritation. In a futile attempt to make yourself look somewhat presentable, you frustratedly wipe the dirt from your black jeans. As an individual associating with extremely wanted criminals, your ability to appear inconspicuous would likely, to anyone else, be considered highly essential in near any situation. But, alas, here you were, basically smothered in dirt and grime. Your aged combat boots were covered in enough soot to make any fireplace envious, and your poor jeans appeared to have suffered a disastrous encounter with a ravenous bear. Your hair was greasy and unkempt, and you couldn’t recall the last time you had showered- or even had the opportunity to.

   Gross.

   The window screeches as it rolls down, and you glance over your shoulder at the truck. Roadhog leans out the windows, giving you a thumbs-up from the driver's seat. Junkrat peers over his shoulder, flashing you his signature crooked grin.

   “Ay, we ain’t got all day, _Sheila_.”

   “Yeah, whateva’,” you mutter, jokingly waving the boys off as you make your way towards the small convenience store. It was a run-down truck stop in the middle of Absolutely Nowhere, Alabama. The sun beat down on your figure; your reflection in the mucky window sickening to examine. Grumbling, you pull Junkrat’s charred gray hoodie over your head and push open the shop’s heavy glass doors.

   A surge of extremely appreciated cool air greets you, and you stand, motionless, in the doorway for a moment in order to fully welcome and treasure the greatly valued presence of air conditioning. An incredible invention, you’d say. If only the boys could see you now; how terribly envious they’d be. Roadhog’s battered pickup truck, which the boys had purchased to accommodate you as well as to provide some sense of unobtrusive travel, was once blessedly gifted with air conditioning. That is until a certain maniacal engineer got his dusty, grubby hands all over it. His reasoning was merely a half-assed, apologetic mumbling of “I really needed it,” and both you and Roadhog begrudgingly forgave him. 

  “Afternoon,” the cashier speaks, but you pay him no mind.

_Head down, eyes up._

_Get in, get out._

_Slim Jims, Gatorade._

   You shuffled awkwardly down the aisle, your muddied boots soiling the glossy white tile. The cashier’s harsh stare, judgemental and alert, is burning a hole through you.

   He had a right to be cautious, of course. You were a rowdy, law-breaking delinquent engaging in extremely illicit activities with two uncontrollable convicts. Though you were definitely more good-natured than the two junkers, you were still a mischievous murderer.

   Spotting the annoyingly bright packaging of Slim Jims, you snatch up as many as you can fit in one hand. The junkers, especially Junkrat, couldn’t get enough of the salty snack. If it was somehow possible to fatally overdose on the spicy, processed ‘meat’ sticks, you’re absolutely positive that the two of them would be dead already.

   Next, Gatorade.

   Roadhog preferred the overpowering taste of Grape, while Junkrat adored the sharp sour of Lemon-Lime. For you, the classic Fruit Punch would do just fine.

   Holding the three Gatorades and a plethora of Slim Jims under your arm, you grab a giant bag of Takis and a two-liter or Dr. Pepper. Unfortunately for Junkrat, you are unable to locate any Twinkies or any sweet and creamy treat in its resemblance.

   Sighing, your heavy arms overflowing with enough junk food to cause any juice-cleansing health blogger to have an instant heart-attack, you quickly and clumsily stumble over to the counter and plop everything down at the register.

    _Head down, eyes up._

   The man at the counter was old, with wispy white feathery flyways on the sides of his head. His eyes, blue, were pale and dull, and his chapped lips were permanently pressed into a scolding frown. His brows were frustratedly furrowed, and petite, circle glasses straight from the Harry Potter books perched prim and proper on the bridge of his nose.

   His name tag, laminated, was nearly as foggy as his eyes, and you struggled to make out his name. As he starts to scan your items, your anxious eyes wander warily to the window. The dark truck is waiting for you, and you begin to contemplate what they could be up to.

   “Ma’am?” He speaks, but your busied mind disregards his question, locked onto the car in an intense focus.

   “Excuse me, lady?”

   “Ah,” you stutter, “what?”

   “I asked if all this was for a party or something.”

   “Huh? Oh, uh, no. ‘ts for me.”

   He eyes you suspiciously, and you try your best not to panic. You’d done this before- but had he seen through your lazy lie?

   “That’s a lot of food for a lil’ lady like yourself, don’t you think?”

   “Well, I meant- ‘ts for me, n’ some buddies. Ain’t no party, though.”

   There’s an old saying common amongst astronauts- there is no problem bad enough that you can’t make it worse. If your goal was to make this situation as extremely unpleasant as possible, then it certainly worked out in your favor. Having been on an international crime spree for so long, one could assume you would have considerably improved at lying by now. For you, however, that is not the case. No matter, for practice makes perfect.

   His bushy eyebrows furrow as he scowls, setting down the clunky scanner. You fidget nervously, your fingers twitching for the presence of the pistol in your back pocket.

   “I know who you are,” he states. Sirens blare in your head as you search your mind for some kind of credible explanation. Though you'd love to draw attention, it'd be quite inconvenient for your trip. 

   “You’re the girl with those nasty junker boys. I’ve seen you all over the news.”

   “Excuse me?”

   “You heard me.”

   “I ain’t know what ya’ are talkin’ ‘bout,” you hiss.

   “Now, cut that bullshit or I’ll ring the police right now.”

    His statement, though not empty, forces a chuckle from you. You would certainly like to see him try.

   “Now, I bet you’re a pretty wanted woman, huh?” He talks, continuing to scan your items, “and I bet there’s a mighty big bounty on you.”

   “What’d ya want from me?”

   Shocked at the pure audacity of this stranger, you stand, frustrated and confounded. To patronize a criminal, especially one that has committed multiple felonies, was quite courageous.

   “Those boys aren’t good for you, missy. They’ll drag you right down with ‘em. I’ve seen it first-hand, with my daughter. You’re just like her.”

   “You ain’t know nothin’ ‘bout me.”

   “Those boys? I’ve seen what they’ve done, and there’s no hope for those disgusting heathens. They’re using you, and using you real good, huh?”

   “Fuck you,” you spit, fingers tightly gripping the gun behind your back.

   The man, visibly upset with your vulgar defiance, shakes his head. He extends his arm, handing over your bag.

   “There’s no good in those boys, I’m telling you. But, in you? There’s some good in you, deep down. I can see it. Wife’s a psychologist, you know. So, get outta that mess, hon. It’s in your best interes-”

   Blood splatters against the wall, his pale eyes painted with pain and betrayal. Returning the pistol to your back pocket, you remove the plastic bag from his hands with a cheeky grin. Lifelessly, he stumbles back, slumping against the back wall.

 

   “Sorry, mate. Ain’t no one disrespect m’ boys n’ get away with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Are you... okay?" Roadhog inquires.
> 
> "I killed him."
> 
> "'N you ain't get me my Twinkies?!?"


	2. A Familiar Face

    “Get the fuck down,” you command, waving your pistol recklessly around the lobby.

    Frightened shrieks erupt from the people as they duck, dropping to the floor like flies. Roadhog is already behind the counter, his hand aggressively tangled in her hair as he demands the passcode. The teller does not resist his grasp, hanging limply as she whimpers.

    “I don’t know, I don’t know- I swear, please don’t hurt me, I-”

    “Then what’s the damn password?”

    “Ay, leave her alone! I’ve got us a better idea…  Let’s just blow the whole place up instead, what’dya say?!” Junkrat bursts into a fit of laughter, prancing towards the door in hopeful jubilation.

    “Ya’ want this whole fuckin’ place to go up, huh?”  You threaten, intimidatingly creeping towards her.

    “No, no- please, I-”

    “Passcode!” Roadhog’s voice booms as he yanks her head back to look at him.

    “2319,” she wails, “2319!”

    He effortlessly tosses her aside and slowly presses the numbers into the keypad.  He nods to you, and you can’t help but smile.

    “Aw, ‘ts a bloody shame. Was really lookin’ forward to blowin’ somethin’ to smithereens! Next time, ya’ hear?”

    Junkrat, disappointed in the lack of necessary explosions, follows Roadhog through the door. You take Roadhog’s spot, jumping over and standing behind the counter. The teller is curled up on the tile floor, shaking in trepidation.

   

    “Now, don’t be a dipstick, n’ don’t do anythin’ stupid, will ya?” You demand, nudging her softly with your boot.

    “Ha! Ya’ really ain’t one to talk, _Sheila_ ,” Junkrat jokes from the other room.

    “Betta’ shut ya’ fuckin’ mouth before I come in there n’ shove that peg leg up ya’ filthy ass, Rat.”

    He laughs, mumbling something that you can’t wholly make out.

 

   Time passes slowly, and you idly drum your fingertips against the cool counter to pass the excess time. Your eyes flicker around the crowded room, studying each panicked person. Defensively unaware, they swarmed to corners and huddled in the masses. You pondered, for half a moment, how easy it would be to kill them all. Slightly disturbed, you instead decide to focus on why it was more practical to keep them alive. While who they were was of no importance to you, witnesses were what you craved. Fear, fame, and fortune.

    It was addicting.

    Growing up in a dog-eat-dog kind of world, you grew to be fairly ruthless. Though it wasn’t entirely voluntary, it was what you had to do to survive. The outback in Australia was merciless, and those who lived there were too.

 

    The building shakes as a boom echoes through the building, shaking you from your riveting reverie. Bits of plaster fall softly from the ceiling.

    “Boys?”

    “Was another door back ‘ere,” Junkrat calls to you, “but I really wanted t’ see some explosions this time ‘round.”

    “‘Course ya’ did. We ready t’ rumble?”

    It's several minutes later that your question is answered. Junkrat pops out from the doorway to respond, and Roadhog arrives seconds after. They both are carrying two bags each, filled to the brim and overflowing with dollar bills.

    “Still s’more cash back there, if ya’ care to boil ya’ blood’s worth.”

    “Nevah,” you grin, “but keep an eye on the lil’ lady while I’m off.”

    Junkrat stands up straight, waving a half-ass salute in your direction.

    “Ya’ got it, _boss_ ,” he mocks you.

    “Don’t call me that.”

   

    He hands you a frayed bag that near exactly resembles a potato sack, and you leave your watch-post to collect some cash. You scrunched the itchy bag up in your hand and walk through the hallway, dust still falling slowly to the floor. You spot the cash carelessly lying about the floor, the white wall that once stood in the way near disintegrated. Scorch marks dye the edges ash, singed a matte ebony littered with burning embers. Ducking beneath the splintered beams, you nearly trip over the exposed baseboard. Every second you spent in the wreck of the room was an increase of the odds that it’d give out above you, and you used this uneasy discernment to fuel your swift cash-grabbing session. They’d left quite a bit behind, which you knew they’d only do if their bags were entirely full. You were awfully surprised with how effortless this burglary had been, and the haul was actually pretty decent. Especially considering how increasingly difficult it was becoming to find any establishments that kept this large of a quantity of cash under such minute security, but you sure weren’t complaining.

   After you finish stuffing the bag with loot, you sling it over your shoulder and make your way back to the lobby.

   The first thing you notice is that the teller is huddled in the far corner, curly blonde hair falling messily in front of her. She’s hiding something, and your inquisitive eyes scope out her concealed object. Her shaky palms grip tightly on a cell phone. As if on cue, a worried question echoes throughout the room:

   “911, what’s your emergency?”

   

    The three of you freeze, directing your attention to the _snitch._ She quickly realizes her mistake and panics, bawling words of panic into the phone.   

    “Drongos,” you hiss, “I told ya’ to keep a damn eye on ‘er. Now she’s gon’ and phoned the police. Useless cunts, the pair of ya’.”

    “Ay, we-”

    “Bug off,” you barked.

    Flinging the bag of cash onto the tile floor, you frustratedly cock your gun and step towards blondie.

    “Please, please,” she screams, scrambling to get away from you.

    The phone lie idle on the cold ground and you irritatedly stomp down on it, your heavy boot shattering it completely.

    “Oh, ya’ sure done fucked up,” you growl, pulling the trigger.

    For a mere fraction of a second, her eyes lock onto yours. They’re an icy blue, overflowing with terrified tears and filled with unbridled fear. A shiver creeps down your spine as your shocked skin erupts with goosebumps. Her freezing stare is all too familiar, but it’s far too late. Your bullet lodges in her skull, those haunting blue eyes wide open in horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bloody Hell, did ya' really hafta go an shoot 'er?"
> 
> "If ya' ain't shut ya' fuckin' mouth right now I swear t' God she ain't gonna be the only one with a bullet in 'er head."
> 
> "Look, Roadie! She's gettin' all feisty with me!"


End file.
